


not today

by luckyrose



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, First Meetings, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckyrose/pseuds/luckyrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil tugs at his short hair, and huffs a sparkling cloud of air. “I really don’t want you to jump.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	not today

**Author's Note:**

> I don't what this fic is other than a spewing of my emotions. Take what you will.  
> Please be aware of the tags for implied/referenced suicide, as well as suicide ideation. Take care of yourselves, friends.

As the road curves, the long length of the bridge appears, stretching across the frozen water to the caverns of downtown. Clint walks on the icy sidewalk with his shaking hands in his pockets, fingernails biting harder and harder into his palms as the bridge gets closer.

His vision gets blurry, the rushing of water behind his eyes coming unbidden and unwanted. Clint sharply inhales against the cold air and tries to tamp it down, tries to keep a lid on his roaring emotions.

When his feet cross the bridge, onto it’s flat and clean sidewalk, but he doesn’t stop yet. He continues to walk down, parallel to the nearly empty road of 3am, only one or two cars that whizz by without a second thought to him. The bridge has a slight roof, a shelter created by the train that rides on top, and it keeps the wind down.

Halfway across, in the middle, Clint stops. His heart picks up, from it’s heavy thumps to a faster, stronger feeling. His bare hands grip the frozen metal, and he heaves one leg over the railing, then the other. He lowers them to a strut, and facing the icy river, arms spread out on either side of himself to hold him up. Like a body hanging on a cross. Both feet barely fit on the small metal strut, and one small move and he’s…

His arms shake like personal earthquakes, and his heart is so loud it deafens him. The constant rush of blood from it’s frantic beating is making him deliciously dizzy, and the abyss hanging below him is so tempting that he licks his dry lips in wonder. There’s nothing but a haze of drifting snow in the plunge underneath his shivering feet. There’s nothing but potential.

Clint takes one breath after another, the rushing behind his eyes forming thick tears that stream down his blisteringly red and cold face. Shaking arms won’t hold him forever. And so he takes a moment to ask himself, _is it today?_

Nothing in the cold city 3am air answers him, only the frantic, panicked beating of his own heart.

He doesn’t move. The euphoria of hanging so close, the sensation of standing on the edge of the abyss is too hauntingly beautiful and promise-filled to release just yet. He waits, sucking in cold breath after cold breath until he sees the man watching him.

Clint’s own heart is so loud even the flinching rush of any cars speeding past has been muted, so it’s no surprise he didn’t hear the man’s footsteps. He is only a couple years older than Clint’s seventeen, in a big black jacket zipped up to the neck and wide, worried eyes that are the colour of a clear winter sky.

Surprise punches Clint in the chest and almost makes his arms throw him into the grips of the beyond. Instead, a knee-jerk reaction makes him cling harder to the metal.

“Hey,” the man says, hands out careful. “Do you mind if I come closer?”

Clint stares. He wonders what this guy wants, he wonders why he didn’t just hurry past. He’s been hanging here every night for a week, asking himself _is it today?_ And he’s never seen anyone else. But the fact that there isn’t any way this could really get much worse allows him to nod in soft agreement.

He stands, just close enough that he could lurch forward to could grab him if necessary, but not touching. “My name is Phil, can I talk to you for a minute?”

Clint merely nods again.

Phil tugs at his short hair, and huffs a sparkling cloud of air. “I really don’t want you to jump.”

“You don’t have to watch.” Clint says, through a scratchy voice welled up with emotion.

Phil shakes his head. “I’m not gonna leave you to jump. You shouldn’t do it, okay?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because that would suck. Did you know that like, thirty percent of the people who jump off this bridge live? They hit the ground and spend the rest of their lives in pain. Just… it would suck so I don’t think you should do it.” Phil squares his jaw, like this is really hurting him, to be standing there.

Clint looks away from Phil and to the night sky, diluted from the downtown city lights with only false stars, with only satellites shining in the endless blanket of murky dark. It’s a shining pinnacle of vast nothing. Clint aches to join it. _Is it today?_

“Hey, hey, come on.” Phil says, tight and worried. “If you come down, I’ll…”

Clint looks back, curious. “You’ll?”

“I’ll buy you something. I dunno, I’m shit at this. There’s a diner on the other side of the bridge, they’ve got hot coffee ready. Or tea. I’ll get you something warm, I bet you’re freezing.” Phil looks rather desperate. “Please.”

Clint’s arms are shaking quite badly now. Usually he’s decided by now, if today is the limit of how far he can stretch. If today is the end of his rope, for real. “What are you doing on the bridge at this time of night, Phil?”

Phil looks surprised, but answers easily enough. “I work night shift at a security company, I’m just walking home. I was only working half the shift because I was helping a friend out.”

Clint hums. “I’m just curious. I’ve been here every night this week, asking myself the same thing. Asking myself if today is…” he trails off, not really wanting to finish, unsure why he’s telling the stranger in the first place. Maybe wondering if Phil had been here on the first night, his life might have gone differently.

“Not today.” Phil says firmly. “You decided every other night that there was a reason to stay, and I’m telling you right now that it is not today. Please.”

Clint breathes in the biting air, and his heart isn’t nearly as loud now. He thinks, _not today_ , and turns, shaking arms gripping the metal as hard as he can. Facing Phil, he heaves his legs, one, then the other, and rolls off the railing. Weak legs don’t support him, only his death-grip on the railing keeps him standing.

“Thank you.” Phil sounds almost as if he could weep with relief. “Thank you. Please, let me get you something. You look…”

“Terrible?” Clint finishes, gathering up the remains of his strength to stand up straight. “I know. I know. Yeah, I’ll… I have a coffee. Thanks.”

“It’s no problem.” Phil says, and points down the sidewalk of the bridge. A car whizzes past and Clint flinches, and starts the walk.

It feels different than every other night this week. His return usually is a haunting sense of dread, of continuing the struggle. But the small promise of a hot drink delays that, and instead has him seeking sideways glances at the man with eyes a different kind of haunting. The good kind.

The diner is lit, a warm orange light onto the snow. Phil leads, hand on the door and holding it open for Clint. The heat is instant, and almost overwhelming in contrast to Clint’s frozen skin. Phil waves at the hostess and takes a booth by the window, looking out onto the haze of snow and half-lit streets.

Clint realizes he’s walked all the way over here without saying a word, and that’s pretty rude. “Um… thanks, man. For stopping. I… I…” he doesn’t know where he’s going with that sentence, so he stops.

Phil’s swallowing eyes match the smile that graces his face. “You’re welcome, for any semblance of help I might be. I don’t exactly know what the protocol is for trying to stop… that. But I needed to try.”

“Because you don’t want to watch my brains on the ice?” Clint asks, uncaring of his own mentioned death.

“Because you look too young and too scared to be hanging off the edge of a bridge.” Phil corrects.

Clint licks his dry lips, and looks down. Sees a menu, and picks it up. It’s crudely laminated but all the food looks good, if his stomach wasn’t churning like he is going to puke, he’d ask to get some. Instead, he just requests coffee with sugar, while Phil asks for it black. The waitress, tired with a tight bun of almost yellow hair, brings it only a minute later, steaming hot.

Phil starts to drink his right away, but Clint wraps his fingers around either side of the ceramic white mug and feels it burn through layers of chilled skin. It doesn’t feel good, instead itches, but he doesn’t pull his fingers away. There’s a TV running behind him, and he cranes his neck to see. It’s the highlights from a hockey game, but Clint doesn’t watch hockey, so he looks away and focuses back on Phil.

“What do you do security for?” he asks.

Phil explains that he watches over empty office buildings overnight, to pay for his college tuition.

“Do you like it?” Clint says, finally having enough feeling in his fingers to take a sip of the coffee. It’s still too hot, and it burns his tongue.

“It’s not terrible.” Phil replies. “Are you still in high school?”

“Yeah. I’m a senior.”

“What do you want to do when you’re finished?”

Clint shrugs awkwardly, looking away. Phil’s eyes are still fixed on his face and it makes him nervous, a writhing little ball in his stomach.

“No ideas?” Phil says, gently.

“I dunno.” Clint keeps his gaze to the side, and shrugs again. “I don’t know anything I’d be good at.”

“Nobody does, when they’re in high school.” Phil confides, smiling at him steadily. “It’s not exactly the breeding ground for opportunity.”

“No.” Clint agrees. “It’s not.”

Phil is done his coffee, and Clint reluctantly swallows his last mouthful. His hands are still tingling like TV static.

Taking a breath, Phil gives him another piercing gaze. “Just… don’t give up yet, alright?”

“No promises.” Clint says, through the vice grip of terror around his windpipe. He can’t promise something like that. To give up the only escape, the abyss under his feet, sparkling like the only promise that will be kept.

_Thirty percent don’t die…_ Phil’s voice pierces his brain, and Clint is startled to realize that his abyss might not be as sure as he thought.

“Can you promise to try?” Phil says, pulling Clint back to the real world, not the murky swamp of his thoughts. He looks up, and comprehends the caring, coaxing tone of Phil’s voice under-woven with true worry and concern. Maybe he could promise to try, to someone as kind as Phil.

“Alright.” Clint says. Reluctant, but agreeing all the same.

Phil smiles, true, and gets up to pay the bill. While he’s at the counter, Clint grabs a child’s crayon from the shelf behind him, and a napkin. He writes, _thanks again – clint_ and leaves without making a sound.

 


End file.
